The Gig Pt. 01

The ad was a simple photocopied sign pinned to the bulletin board in the cafeteria:

"Model / waiter(ess) needed for fashion show. Age, size, gender not important. Paid."

A phone number and the address of the local Art's college were listed below. Pat hadn't been a model since a brief stint in the pages of the local mall's catalog, many many years ago. But the waitressing bit she could nail without breaking a sweat. Too many gigs in too many greasy spoon diners had taught her to hate the service industry. But the ad did say "Paid." And Pat did need money.

She wrote down the number.

The Art College was a few blocks away from the campus of the University where Pat was currently finishing her studies. It consisted of a single building, a vaguely modernistic cube owing more to the brutalism of cheap manufacturing than any esthetic sensibility, though the small park behind it was lovely. In the middle of the park was a large fountain, and behind that fountain was a large white tent. The lady on the phone had instructed Pat to head there.

The tent barely contained the chaos within. A series of temporary changing booths had been set up in the middle of the tent, just poles and black fabric draped over the shaky horizontals. Around them were folding tables, make-up stations, and bright lights. And everywhere people were running around, chasing or being chased, waving papers and bits of fabric as they shouted at each other across the large space.

Pat froze in the entrance. A bubbly blonde with a clipboard rushed up to her.

"Hi! Are you one of our models?" she exclaimed, a bright smile plastered on her face.

"Yes", said Pat, "I spoke to someone on the phone. I don't remember her name."

"That's okay, at this point we just need bodies. You DO have waiting experience? Good. I'm going to assign you to Joshua, he's Fan-tas-tic! His stuff is, like, wow. You'll love it."

The blonde with the clipboard led Pat to a corner of the tent where a small gaggle of people were busily dressing a smaller group of either stunned or bored models. In the middle of it all was a small man, or a tall boy, Pat couldn't decide which, who busied himself by pointing and yelling and generally telling people what to do. He turned to Pat, frowning. His face was partially obscured by a fashionably cut curtain of black hair, leaving Pat still confused as to his age. Probably early twenties, she decided.

He looked her up and down, one finger on his chin, appraising her.

"Yes. Number 3" he said to no one in particular.

A young man dressed in black rushed forward and lead Pat to the dressing room.

"Just take your clothes off and I'll bring you the dress you'll be wearing. DON'T try to put it on, it's very delicate, we will do it for you. Just leave your stuff in a corner."

He pointed in a vague direction, and left, leaving Pat in a small dressing area. It was just three walls, with one side open towards the corner where the designer was still busy yelling at people. The dressing area was big enough to hold several people, and a few folding chairs were scattered about. Piles of clothes and bags were tucked to the side.

"Well, I guess that's that." thought Pat.

She dropped her bag on the floor against the curtain wall and, hesitantly, started to take off her clothes. She didn't hesitate much, she knew she had a nice body, shaped by swimming and a life-long love of the outdoors. Though she was only five foot one (and a half, she automatically added), she had a lean look, making her legs look long and her hips curvy. With her long brown hair, no one ever mistook her for a young girl or, God forbid, a boy. Stripping in this public place was a bit of a thrill, actually, a pleasant tickle in the back of her mind.

She peeled off her jeans and T-shirt, dumping them over her bag, leaving her in her bra and panties. Thank goodness she had worn a clean pair of sturdy cotton briefs. She folded her arms over her breasts and waited.

The young man returned promptly, a large bundle of grey fabric in his arm, which he carefully placed on the floor. He looked Pat over, one eyebrow arched.

"You have to take it all off." He said. "Here, wear those."

He tossed her a small pair of grey panties. Pat caught them, suddenly feeling a warm blush spread over her. Did he really expect her to strip naked in front of every one? In front of him?

She looked down at the panties in her hand, partially to avoid looking at the young man, but mostly to hide the nervous smile that curled her lips. Truth was, she loved being in these situations. She loved being naked where she shouldn't be, loved the thrill of being seen, even though she was usually too shy to do anything about it. But to be told to be naked, in public, in front of these strangers. That pushed all the right buttons.

The panties in her hand were barely a G-string. They would barely hide the heat that was now rising up her thighs and nestling deep in her womb.

Staring into the distance, she reached behind her and unclipped her bra. She let it slide down her arms and dropped it on her pile of clothes. Her breasts bounced free, her nipples already hard. They looked full on her small frame, though they were small enough to stand proudly firm. She hooked her thumbs in her panties and, watching the young man from the corner of her eye, pulled them down over her hips.

He did not look interested at all.

She stepped out of her panties and straighten up, taking her time figuring out the G-string she was supposed to wear. She could feel the cool air brushing against the shaved lips of her sex, making her blush a deeper red. She knew that anyone looking over would see her, see her naked breasts, the tight curve of her ass, and, guided by the small triangle of dark pubic hair, her pussy. She didn't dare look around, secretly enjoying the buzz of her exhibition.

She finally stepped into the G-string and pulled the fabric snug against her. It barely covered her pubes, and she could feel the string split her sex. She wondered if she was leaving a wet spot on the grey fabric.

The young man guided her to the pile of fabric on the floor, showing her where to put her feet so that he could pull up the whole thing over her hips and shoulders. He then lead her to join the other models who were being prepped.

There were about six other models, four women and two men. They were obviously not professional models, just regular students who had answered the ad. All were wearing variations on the dress that Pat was wearing, grey-ish white sacks held up by thin spaghetti straps. The designer was moving around from model to model, and doing complicated things to the fabric.

Pat caught the eye of the model standing next to her and smiled. The other model was a statuesque young woman, almost six feet tall, broad shouldered and beautiful, with the build of a volleyball player rather than a model. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones and square jaw.. She had a little smirk on her full lips, and a knowing look in her eye.

Pat immediately assumed that the young woman had seen her stand naked in the booth. She blushed, as only a shy exhibitionist could.

"Do you know what this is all about?" asked Pat, trying to shift the focus to something else.

"It's the end-of-year fashion show. The graduating students show off their collection and we serve drinks to the parents. it's kinda fun. The clothes are cool and the night is short." said the young woman.

Pat looked down at the grey sack she was wearing.

"I don't know about cool..." she mumbled.

"Wait until he does his thing. Apparently it's a whole origami thing, where he folds the fabric and it all takes shape. He had to have it special made. It's actually some kind of paper mixed with cotton or something. Word of advice, don't spill water on yourself, cause I'm not kidding when I said it was made of paper."

"Aren't we supposed to be serving drinks in these?" said Pat, slightly panicked.

"Yep. It's going to be an interesting night!" she said, grinning. She extended her hand. "I'm Amanda."

Pat shook her hand. Amanda smiled.

The designer spent a few minutes fussing over Pat, folding and tucking the fabric of the dress. Pat had to admit she was impressed. The grey sack she had been wearing turned into a sharp-edged, multi-layered paper sculpture. It was very light, and Pat felt very conscious of her near-nudity underneath it. It was like wearing a paper lantern. It was also fairly fragile, forcing Pat and the other models to use slow, stiff movements as they walked around.

Finally everyone was dressed and the evening started. Pat was shooed down a low stage and out into the garden. As she emerged form the tent she was briefly blinded by the lights but found her footing and strutted down the runway in her best impression of a fashion model. She was guided off the runway and unceremoniously handed a tray of drinks. So much for being a model. Now the waitressing part started.

Night had settled by then, the park now lit by hanging lanterns and the glow of the underwater lights in the fountain. The tent had become the backdrop for the runway, with a video screen hanging above it. Models in various outfits were steadily emerging from the tent, a video above their head announcing the student responsible for the design and whatever interesting bit of bio they could gather together. The crowd of proud parents lapped it up, clapping at the appropriate times.

Pat found herself cruising the crowd, tray of drinks balanced in one hand. Her other hand was busy keeping people from bumping into her. Her dress was already slightly crumpled at a corner where some doofus had backed into her. She had watched in horror as a few drops of liquid from her tray had sailed through the air and landed on her dress. Three round holes, half the size of a penny, had slowly formed under her eyes, the fabric melting away. Luckily the complicated pleats of her dress hid most of the damage. But she was nervous, and her feet were starting to hurt.

The show had been over for an hour but no one had left. She kept serving flutes of cheap champagne to more and more inebriated parents and professors, wondering when they would let her go home.

She spotted Amanda in the crowd. She was laughing with a group of middle-aged men, her tray delicately balanced on her shoulder, her other hand holding the top of her dress. The men seemed fascinated by what she was saying. When Amanda turned and walked away from the men, Pat had a sneaky suspicion that the men didn't care one whit about what she was saying. The back of her dress was a mess of half-dissolved fabric, revealing the sweeping curves of her muscular shoulders. The dress had dissolved all the way to her lower back, revealing the beginning swell of her ass. To top it off, she was physically holding her dress up with that one hand. If she let go, her dress would fall to the ground.

Pat quickly made her way to the catering station where Amanda was having her tray refilled by the bartender. Up close, Amanda seemed even more naked. The dress was perforated by hundreds of tiny holes through which her skin could be seen. The curve of her ass was almost subliminally revealed by her movements. Stare at it and nothing could be seen, but as she moved the holes revealed shapes and shadows that confirmed that yes, beneath that dress was a firm and naked ass. To top it off the curve of her breasts could be clearly be seen from the back, two pale crescents of flesh that curved past her rib cage.

Pat approached her, laying her tray next to hers on the table.

"You need to get a new dress, yours is falling apart" said Pat, keeping her voice low.

Amanda turned and smiled when she recognized Pat.

"I know! I stood too close to the fountain! But oh well, the night is almost over. No need to make a fuss." said Amanda.

"I could get someone to repair the strap at least" continued Pat as their trays were being filled with more champagne.

"Nah. If you want to know the truth..." and Amanda lowered her voice conspiratorially, "it makes the evening kinda fun. And I get better tips."

"You're getting tips? I didn't get any tips all night!" said Pat, now indignant.

"I don't think we're supposed to be getting tipped. But for some reason those guys over there keep putting bills on my tray and asking for more champagne. Who am I to say no?" Amanda said, a wicked smile on her lips.

Amanda picked up her tray and turned away.

"Oh look," she said " they're waving me over. These guys have a mighty thirst..." Amanda waved at Pat and headed back into the crowd.

Pat grabbed her tray and followed.

Amanda was presenting her tray to the semi-circle of middle aged men in bad suits. Every time she made to move away, one of them would throw a bill on her tray and engage her in conversation. Pat circled the group but no one paid her any attention. All eyes were on Amanda, and on her dress that was always a few inches from falling down.

Pat could see the lust behind the men's eyes and a part of her was howling to be looked at in the same way. She was too shy to be brazenly seductive, and anyway in the dress she was wearing there were no possible moves she could try to draw the men's attention. She told herself to move on. Another part of her brain pushed her forward.

Pat made a quick run through the rest of the crowd, offering champagne here and there. Almost innocently, accidentally, Pat kept getting closer to the fountain. It wasn't until she felt the drops of water on her skin that she snapped out of it. The spray from the fountain had covered the front of her dress. Not daring to look down, Pat walked to Amanda and her group of admirers, pretending not to notice the stares of the other guests as she made her ay through the thin crowd. Once at the semi-circle of men, she boldly presented her tray, holding it with two hands. All eyes turned to her.

Pat stood there, a smile on her face, the picture of innocence. She saw the men's eyes scanning her body, watched them watch her, watched as their eyes kept dropping to her chest. A slight tremble started in her thighs. She wanted to look down, to see what they were seeing, but she didn't dare. She stood there, protected by her ignorance. As soon as she looked down, they would know that she knew. She was too shy for that. But she could feel her clit swell, her pussy moisten at their gaze.

She briefly wondered if she would get so wet that her panties would dissolve too, leaving her truly naked. The thought made her wetter. Behind the men, Amanda sported an amused smile.

The gathered around Pat, taking their time getting the flutes of champagne off of the tray. The flutes were soon replaced by dollar bills, and requests for more champagne.

"Make sure you bring us back some more, honey!" said one of the leering gents.

The lust in his eyes was obvious, his eyes laying a coating of slime across her body, like two horny slugs. HIs toad-like appearance in his cheap suit, the boozy smile across his lips, all made Pat feel dirty and incredibly horny.

She turned away before the flush that was spreading across her chest could blossom over her face. She rushed past the catering station, out the back and into the tent. She found a deserted corner and finally, shaking, she looked at herself in one of the mirrors.

The front of her dress was pierced with hundreds of tiny holes. She had been prepared for that. But the paper had also shredded under the pull of gravity, leaving long tears in the fabric. A single thick and hard nipple was poking out from one of the tears.

The rest of the dress was just as revealing. Her skin was clearly visible through the fabric, as was the shape of her breasts. The darker shade of the areola of her other breast was like a soft shadow behind the thin fabric, obvious in it's shape. Even her belly button was exposed, as was a long stretch of her side and hip. Her shoulders were now bare, and the straps had dissolved completely. That hard nipple and the swell of her ass were the only things holding her dress up.

She had a vision of herself as seen by the men; a young woman, half naked, exposing herself, a turgid nipple aimed right at them. They would have been hard, all of them. All they had to do is say the word and she would have dropped to her knees and serviced all of them, in a row or in a circle, a dozen hard cocks she would have gladly swallowed and licked and drained of cum. She saw herself in the center of a ring of men, a dozen cocks aimed at her naked body, her mouth full of whomever was the closest. Her dress would have dissolved under a shower of semen, leaving her naked in the ring of staring men. And what terrified her is that she would have done it. Her shyness was dwarfed by her submissiveness, and had one of those men had told her, directly , to suck all their cocks, she would have done it and proved to them, and her, what a good little slut she was.

The vision was driving her mad. Her clit was on fire, begging to be touched, rubbed, pinched, anything. She looked around for something, a table corner to press against, but suddenly realized that there would be no relief. Trapped in her fragile paper prison, she could not reach her own sex without ripping the dress further. She clamped her fingers over her exposed nipple, sending shocks through her body that made her knees almost buckle.

Wide eyed with lust, her face red, her nipple pinched between her fingers, she turned and saw Amanda., standing there, looking at her, a slight smile on her lips.

"Are you coming back out? The guys are asking for you." she said, her little smile never leaving her lips.

"I'll be right there" replied Pat, desperately trying to get a hold of herself. She could feel a single bead of her juices ooze out of her pussy and slowly slide down her inner thigh.

Pat walked towards the exit, every nerve on fire, aware of the slickness of her inner lips as they slid against each other at every step. Amanda didn't move our of her way. She stood there, looking down at Pat, her arms crossed in front of her, that smile still on her lips.

"That really turned you on, didn't it" said Amanda.

Pat could not bring herself to look up at the woman standing in front of her. Keeping her eyes pointed at the ground, she mumbled an apology.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take away your tips. I just thought I'd help..." her apology trailed away to silence.

"I don't care about the money" said Amanda, "I just didn't know if you had it in you. But obviously..."

She reached out with one hand and held Pat's hard nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Pat gasped. Amanda squeezed, hard. Pat moaned, almost falling to the ground. Amanda let go of the nipple.

"...you sure do. Let's go back out there, together. we'll take their money and give these guys something to jerk off about. Waddaya say" said Amanda.

Pat kept her head down, but she nodded her assent. Amanda looked at her for another second before turning on her heels and heading back out.

"Come on!" she yelled out over her shoulder.

Pat followed, her throat tight with fear but her thighs slick with the steady stream of juices that had been flowing from her pussy.

The walk back towards the group of men seemed eternal. They had paused at the catering station long enough to refill their trays. Pat had not dared to look up at the young man behind the table who was stacking the champagne flutes on the tray. But she was sure he had stared at her exposed breast. Now, walking through the thinning crowd, she kept her eyes locked forward.

The men cheered when the two women arrived. Pat made a show of offering each a flute of champagne, keeping her attitude professional. But her insides were boiling as one after the other, the men stared at her. Most dropped a few bills on her tray.