On to Friday - On to Paris!

You wake up early in the morning. Very early, still pitch black outside, your new employer sent you a message last nigh with the time he’ll pick you up. It’s gonna be a LONG day, you assume fashion shows don't really end to allow an early bedtime. You take a shower and have time to have a strong coffee before the door bell rings.

You've put on what you consider your most fashionably clothes but the look in the man's face is unmistakable when he looks up and down your body

"What in the world are you wearing?”

“I just thought…”

“Be glad I met you when you were naked, if my first impression of you had been - this fashion disaster, I don't think I could have hired you with a clear conscience. Take that off, I won't be seen with you like that ANYWHERE in Paris, let alone my fashion show!”

You obey and he grab your arm, puling you out of the door. Naked.

“Wait, what the…”

“Oh, don’t make a fuss, it’s dark. We’re taking a private plane and have a company driver in Paris, hardly anyone is going to see you until you get there. I will not look at any of your clothes all this time. Your naked body is acceptable.”

You try to talk back, but he just gives you time enough to grab your purse and pulls you out of the apartment in your birthday suit. For a man being born into a woman's body he has quite a strong grip, you almost feel kidnapped. Almost. You also feel a pleasant tingle between your legs as you walk out into the street, still dark and unpopulated. Since you are a model, you’ve become quite used to strong exhibitionist urges developing in you. Or maybe just being set free.

He pulls you into a waiting taxi – the driver stares into the rear mirror. So much for “hardly anyone is going to see you". You blush but try to act normal. Nothing to see here. And if there is you're free to consider it a tip, Mr. Driver.

Your employer hands him a suitable amount of money in advance for the - unusual passenger and gives him the name of an airport. Not the main airport of your city but one you’re never heard of.

It takes you a while, it's quite far on the outskirts.

You notice the driver adjusting the rear view mirror and assume he no longer has much of a view on the road behind him but more of your chest. You gulp, and smile. It’s a compliment and you take it as such.

Getting to the small airport you walk to the runway – no customs, no formalities, apparently everything has been checked within the few hours since you accepted. Probably privileges that come with a private Lear Jet.

You stare at the plane as your naked feet walk the tarmac and shyly walk the stairs and enter it. All in all, this has to be as big as your apartment, probably bigger. You could live on this luxuriously.

You take a seat vis-a-vis your new boss . In a lusciously soft leather armchair. This belongs into a lounge room, not into a plane. You feel very conscious of the wetness of your pussy from being paraded around naked without getting to actual consent from you, as your lips touch the cool leather.

Well, if that leaves stains, it’s not your fault, you’d wear panties if he let you.

You fasten the seat belt, as the pilot announces the start and feel the speed that pressing you into your seat. You hold your nose to pop your ears as the pressure rises and eventually – really quickly, your reach your final travelling height and are allowed to unbuckle your belt.

“Your first flight?”

He hardly said a word on the way here – which doesn't really seem his style. You almost suspect he wanted to obverse your reaction to him ordering you around and making you take the trip all in the nude.

You shake your head. Do you look so nervous to assume you never flew? Well. Distressed you are, but...

“No. But of course I never flew naked. Or in a plane with actual leg space.”

He chuckles.

“Don’t think this is standard for models. As a beginner you’ll likely fly economy quite a lot. Dressed, I have to say. But it you make it high enough up the ladder…”.

He winks.

“Supermodels can afford private planes.”

Yeah. Right. Becoming a supermodel is obviously every girl’s dream and the bait to get them into the business. You're a bit too realistic for THAT. You lean back, already pretty used to being naked around him, but jump again, when a stewardess who shows up seemingly out of nowhere. This plane come with a stewardess?

“Can I get you anything!”

She smiles professionally, not blinking an aye at the naked passenger. Either your boss tends to do that more often, or she’s just that good at keeping a poker face. Before you can say anything, he orders.

“Bacon and cheese sandwich or me and a fruit platter for my guest. And champagne.”

You frown at having your breakfast ordered. You didn’t get a chance to eat at home and your stomach is grumbling a the mention of the sandwich. Only now what you heard and read about models’ dietary habits comes to mind, you didn’t care very much for any off this as a man and it's stored somewhere on the back of your head. But you'll be damned...

You look down on your female body. It’s very pleasantly shaped and quite far off the idea you had of starved, super-thin models as a man. Your breasts are full, your hips round and your ass firm and juicy. You’re not going to starve yourself, you don't plan to lose these curves and if he didn't like them you shouldn’t have hired you.

“Make that two sandwiches!”

The stewardess looks at your companion and he nods smiling.

“Didn’t mean to appear presumptuous, I'm not used to models eating well.”

“Better get used to it, a body like this need sustenance and I’m not going to be Twiggy!”

“I like womanly bodies for my shows or I wouldn't have hired you!”

You nod and hungrily bite into your sandwich as it arrives. And have a sip of the champagne. Decadent, for breakfast, but you assume he wants you get you into a good mood. The sandwich that works better for that, but the drink is nice, too

When you're done eating, licking your fingers he orders you to stand up.

“Talking about your curves… I hired you without actually having a good look at you. Don't get me wrong, the – work ethics you showed me yesterday is a very important part of the job…”

He winks at you.

“And of course I did get a nice first impression of your body, but I need to delve into that some more."

You stand up obediently and let him examine your whole boy from up close. Measure your bust, hips, waist, length of legs, width of shoulders.

It’s all very professional, but you really enjoy the hands all over you. As strong as she has shown they can be they're also quite gentle and soft. Well manicured and moisturised. Female hands you would have thought, but you guess not that unusual for men in the fashion and beauty business either. He can afford gentle and caring hands in his job without them making him look to much of the woman he chose not to be.

He notices you enjoy his touch, your nipples get hard and he playfully pinches them, his touches get somewhat less professional and more teasing, caressing as his hands stoke your back, belly, ass, tits, eventually end between your legs and make your clit swell happily, and your pussy moistens with pleasure. His hands are skilled – very skilled, it’s a distinct advantage for a man you have a pussy of his own for this task, you guess - and it doesn't take long until you cum moaning screaming, and need his support as your knees get weak.

“I DO like womanly bodies very much!”

He smiles at you.

You spend the rest of the flight in your knees between his legs, diligently licking his wet pussy, sucking his swollen, huge clit like a cock. You make your new boss cum twice on the way to Paris – time flies as fast the plane does – just as you feel him approach his third orgasm of the morning, the pilot's voice orders you back to your seat and to fasten your seat belt. He grunts in frustration, fastens his belt and then spreads his legs and rubs his clit fast and aggressive, cumming with a moan and sigh as the plane touches French tarmac.

You're taken from the airport in black limousine - there would be a tinted window to separate the driver, but your boss doesn't ask him to rise it, so the driver gets the same show as the taxi driver at home.

She gives some orders to him in French and looks at you.

“By the way – you don't happen to speak French?”

“No, Sir.”

“Thought so. Of course everyone speaks English in the business, no problem. It would be - nice and respectful – especially to me of you learned a bit, eventually, though.

“Uh. Yes, Sir…”

“Let's start with that. It’s ‘Oui, Monsieur!’”

“Y… Oui, Monsieur.”

“Good.”

He smiles and kisses you as a reward.

You finally arrive, at what looks like a palace but on closer look seems to actually be a shopping mall. You really are in Paris. Trough a back entrance and multiple corridors – where you meet some but not many people - you don’t know if in your current state of – déshabillé – is that what the French call it - you should be glad or sorry. Most don't even seem to notice you, aynway. You assume you're getting close to the epi-center of scantily dressed or naked fashion models.

Eventually he leads you into a changing room, bustling with models and aids helping the dress. Your eyes wander aimlessly, many of the girls are indeed semi or fully naked. You’re not as controlled by your lower urges as you used to be as a man – Alexander would Not have been able to function like in this environment. At all. All your blood would have flown form the brain to your cock, small as it was. You now are still able and willing to enjoy the sight of some of the prettiest women in the world naked. Glad you're not bothered by a cock, blushing at that thought.

You flush even hotter as you realize you're now on of them. Some might call you one of the prettiest women in the world just for being here.

The small male part that is ogling the women can not get himself to accept “anything woman” a compliment, but the much bigger part of you that has grown, developed, matured in the last days since you’re no longer under the burden of male hormones and a cock -knows that it is. A huge compliment.

You companion gently slaps your ass!

“Don't just stand there, the show start in a few minutes.”

He waves at one of the people busy with the dresses. A man, stylishly dressed of course.

“Oui, Monsieur?”

“C'est la nouvelle fille. Tu as recevu mon message avec sa taille?”

“Bien sur, Monsieur, mais…”

He holds up a hand.

“She only speaks English, let’s not be rude and include her into the conversation, oui?”

“Of course.

He smiles at you.

“I got your message with her measurements. She's bit - bigger than most our models, but that we can easily fix the dresses. But this is highly unorthodox, non? Does she even have any experience?”

"Not as a catwalk model, no. But you know as for the part of the collection that is – special, special - talents and disposition may take precedence over experience."

The tailor nods.

"Makes sense, Yes. If you think she has what it takes. Alright, we need to hurry up then. The special collection comes late in the show, but we still have to make the changes. “

Your new boss nods and you follow the other man who puts a dress on you. It strangely feels a little weird. You've been naked all day, and specifically since you entered the chaining room here, that seemed pretty natural. But your feeling of inappropriately too much clothes vanishes immediately as you look down.

“Is… is this dress not finished?”

The two men chuckle

"Very much finished, just needs to be changed to your size."

“But….”

You just make a random gesture with your arms. Do you have to say the question out loud? You look down on yourself. It's a long dress, very intricately tailored, and lovely, made of a velvety fabrics. It’s a perfect evening gown, except – the neckline shows all of your tits. And the lower part only has fabric at the sides your pussy and ass are out for all to see.

“Have you ever read 'L’histoire d’O?' ”

You look puzzled. Th tailor sighs.

“The Story of O?”

You shake your head.

“At least watched the movie?”

Shake your head again. You heard of it, but it’s ancient, Alexander didn’t watch movies older than himself. He also was an uncultured swine, the reason you don’t speak French or know how to dress fashionably. You blush, a little ashamed of your old self again and swear to yourself to download the movie first thing. Maybe even the book.

“You really should, one of the great pieces of French literature, if you ask me. The special part of the collection is inspired by it. All the dresses follow the basic concept described for the heroine's dresses in Roissy.”

“Revealing tits, ass and pussy???”

“Indeed.”

“Is anyone ever going to wear this?”

“Ma fille, this is Haute Couture, not Pres d'apporter. It' not really meant for ever day wearing. But yes, I can assure you there are some high society ladies on some – special events who do. Now come, come!”

You new boss pats your ass, framed by the dress.

“I hired you because your agent assured me you’re the most free and open model he ever had in his catalogue. And I can't deny I have been able to confirm that impression all day, mon petite exhibtioniste!”

You blush red hot.

“Are we wrong? Are you not enjoying this? You want me to check?”

Smilingly he slides a hand between your legs. And of course he finds your pussy wet and your clit engorged. You Are an exhibitionist, no doubt. But walking _this _dress in front of a crowd of dozens of people, maybe a hundreds - journalists, celebrities?

You gulp. But here you are. In Paris, all dressed up. Ah, what the hell...

“OK. I’ll do it.”

“Good girl!”

He pets your pussy, making you sigh, to the amusement of the tailor.

“It’ s time. Are you ready with the dress?”

The tailor nods.

“Not that big a deal. I can change the others without her in no time. And…”

He eyes you up and down.

“If I may say so, looking at her now, I have to agree with your choice. It was a good idea to pick a girl with some more - curves than the other models. She filling this dress…. Very nicely. If I was into women… "

Your boss nods an with pat on the ass, this time harder - this will redden it quite a bit, which was probably the idea - it'll definitely be a sight to behold, and you take your first step onto the catwalk.

It all is surreal, feels like a blur, or like you see it through a layer of bubble wrap. Cameras flash, and you walk the catwalk in the high heeled ankle boots the tailor put on you just before going out, trying not to stumble. Thankfully you seem to have a much better feeling of balance in this female body than your clumsy old male one. As you reach the end of the catwalk, your nervousness fades, the veil that lays over your senses lifts and you can take in your environment. You see the gazes on you. When you look to the eyes of the separators you believe you can tell exactly who looks at the exquisitely tailored dress and who cares more about the model and her well framed private parts. You try you walk even closer to the audience, proudly present your dress as well as yourself – you have nothing to hide, you’re a sight to behold. You know it. And as the nervousness falls off of you, your exhibitionism takes over and you enjoy the gazes, the luring and hope you cause more than one uncomfortable boner and wet pussy in the audience.

You walk back the catwalk tall and proud, your head raised, your tits pushed out and are welcomed with a smile by your new boss backstage.

“Magnifique! You were absolutely gorgeous. You're made for he catwalk. Especially like this.”

He touches your tits, and pats your ass once more to send you off to change into the next dress as your co-models fill the time. By now the atmosphere out there has changes, everyone's waiting for your next appearance. The whole show has become about you and the Story of O.

The other dresses you wear the rest of the night are diverse. Various colours, fabrics, styles, lengths and patterns. But they all have their inspiration in common of being full dresses with the important bits missing and showing off your major assets.

You enjoy presenting them more and more every time you walk out the walkway, every time the gazes get more daring and more and more enjoy the sight of your body more than the dress. You love this. You're made for this. You pussy is dripping as the gemstone around your neck glows warm.

As the show ends, you're presenting the hand last dress of the evening. It's the highlight, of course – a wedding dress in the O style, ruffled and frisky, slightly too girly for your taste, not what you would would want your your wedding - only for a fraction of second you freeze over the thought that you'd love to wear a dress for – your wedding and not a suit. As a woman.

But this one isn’t the one that would make the cut anyway. And not - you blushingly admit to yourself - because of the naughtiness. It's exiting to wear. The breast are out and the long, fluffy, ruffled cream white skirt leaves a broad slit for your pussy to be seen and the back of the dress forms a perfect circle revealing your ass. It's a girl's dream of a wedding dress mixed with a very adult woman's’ naught fantasy of one. You'd take the naughty fantasy, the girly dream is too girly, even for your new female self. If you marry - as a woman – you should ask the designer to make you one that’s more stylish. But not less showy. You grin, imagining yourself in front of a priest in this. Next to a loving groom.

You walk the catwalk slowly, enjoying every second of your last performance on it, and stay put a the end. You enjoy the gazes, the flash-lights of the cameras, and finally throw the bouquet that came with the dress into the crowd to great applause of the audience. The designer enters the stage with the main staff and models, while you courtesy, revealing even more of what the dress has to show of you.

You can barley make yourself turn around and leave the applause, the attention, the gazes behind you. You feel exhilarated as never before in your life. Endorphins flood your body, your pussy is burning with excitement and your head is filling with professional pride.

The tailor’s hand congratulates you by slapping your ass, as you most of the other models. You hardly noticed any of them until now, you were busy and nervous , and now try to remember names and faces, because This is what you want to do. You want to work with these people. This is why you were made woman.

The thought that you may become a man again on Sunday only looms in the very back of your head like a little itching spot. Nothing to think about this very moment.

Your new boss comes to you, hugs an kisses you, a hand on your bare ass.

“Brilliant, you're the best model we could have hoped for this special collection presentation. You're definitely hired. Keep your schedule free, you’ll see the world. And the world will see you, Lexi. All of you.”

He gently touches your tits and pinches your hard nipple.

You're surrounded by models for the rest of the night. You regretfully had to take your wedding dress off - it felt right on you – and of course still have not gotten any new clothes, but you feel perfectly natural naked around the ladies.

When one of them – a petite Asians with a slim, firm body, smiles at you even more kindly and sexually than the others, you keenly follow her to the ladies room.

You’re more exited and aroused than ever in your life – you feel your male body wouldn't have been able to reach this level – Alexander would have cum in his pants long ago - and when the woman gets down on her knees between your legs and licks and kisses your lips with an expert tongue, you grab her head, make her caress you faster and harder and squirt into her mouth within a few minutes. She thirstily drinks it all, licks your lips, then hers and stands up to kiss you passionately. You try kneel to return the favour, but she shakes her head smiling.

“Just a friendly professional service to the new girl. I could see you were close to exploding. I know the feeling, I've done some scantily clad shows - an girls like us…”, she winks and kisses you again, “.. desperately need relief after that, am I right?”

You nod, breathless. Girls like you. Exhibitionists among yourselves. Also - girls among yourselves...

You giggle, kiss her back one more time and return to the after show party, more relaxed and able to enjoy it, now.

Eventually your new boss gifts you a dress from the special collection, with a grin.

“You've been naked all day, Lexi I think you deserve some clothing as a reward."

You put it on, it's a classic little black dress – even littler with the trademark openings leaving your tits, pussy and ass open to the world to admire. Everyone laughs, cheers and applauds, and you, feel exhilarated by the day, hyper from not having slept for the better part of 20 hours and all the adrenaline and endorphins flowing through your body. You hug and kiss him gratefully…

“I don't think ever want to wear anything covering me up ever again!”

You kiss your Asian colleague – passionately to everyone's surprise and turn around to follow your new boss to his limousine. Time to go home. For now.

An hour later you’re in the plane home. You'll be dropped off at your place like nothing happened and have the weekend to recover but Monday your agent will get in contact with you and rearrange the details of your new career as a catwalk model.

If you're still a woman by then.

You shake your head as you sink into our comfy leather air-plane seat - because of the nature of your new dress, your lips again sticking to the cool leather and rift into sleep. Silly you. Of course you'll still be a woman on Monday, you Are a woman, why would that ever change. As your consciousness shuts down and your subconscious takes over, the thought of ever being anything but a woman seems dazzling and absurd.

You sleep though the whole flight home, dreaming of being naked in front of the class. Your workmates, your family. At a job interview. All the naked nightmares you have had combine into one, but they're not nightmares any more. They're the hottest erotic dreams you ever had, as your subconscious finally lets you accept you exhibitionist nature